the death of the birds are at the zenith…

the death of the birds are at the zenith.
Who is going to bail Leningrad?

Do not make noise around – he breathes,
He is still alive, He hears everything:

How to wet the bottom of the Baltic Sea
His sons were moaning in her sleep,

As from the depths of his cries: “Of bread!”
Reach up to the seventh heaven…

But this pitiless firmament.
And looking out of all windows – death.
1941

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Anna Akhmatova
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